


Mind Beating Wild

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Cemetery, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13695414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: As Carlotta watches, Christine begins to turn from the grave, having accomplished whatever it was she came here for. She does not make a full turn before a voice echoes through the air, calling out gently.Or, the Carlotta/Christine "Wandering Child" remix.





	Mind Beating Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [generalsleepy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalsleepy/gifts).



It is not the first time Carlotta has gone with Christine to her father’s grave, but it is the first time they have gone with Christine so distraught. Usually Carlotta goes to the grave with her and they kneel in front of the headstone together to pray and pay their respects, as has been their custom ever since their first visit. Today at a sharp glance from Christine Carlotta fades into the background and wanders among other headstones, reading old names and epitaphs and admiring the few flowers left in the snow, temporarily preserved from rot by the cold but soon to wither.

She looks back at Christine every couple minutes, concerned. Christine stands erect, not kneeling as usual. She does not seem to pray, as her hands are not folded but clenched by her sides. Carlotta cannot see her face from here. Perhaps that is best, as she is granting Christine privacy. She can picture it well enough. Over the past couple days it has been set in stone when in public but when they are alone together it creases with distress and anxiety, and Carlotta must steady her own in Christine’s place, be Christine’s fortitude.

As Carlotta watches, Christine begins to turn from the grave, having accomplished whatever it was she came here for. She does not make a full turn before a voice echoes through the air, calling out gently.

“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…”

The cold has not gotten to Carlotta until now, as she is wearing a thick fur coat. But now, her blood freezes within her. The voice is resonant, sibilant, spiritual. It is not like the voice that often calls raucously from the rafters to tell Carlotta what she’s doing wrong, not in tone or quality. But she recognizes it regardless. Singing, it is sweeter than when it yells.

Christine, usually protective of Carlotta when they hear this voice together, cranes her neck, listening. Calls back, “Angel of music, friend or Phantom? Who is it there staring?”

Her voice has taken the same cadence as the singer, almost singing itself, almost a mere echo of what has already been said.

A soft chuckle—soft, it sounds, but it still can be heard all throughout the cemetery. “Have you forgotten your Angel?”

No. No. No. Carlotta forces herself to move, half dazed herself, to walk to Christine’s side. Of course Christine hasn’t forgotten her Angel, but merely learned that he is a deception. That he is the Phantom. But in this moment, white faced and wide eyed, she seems to have forgotten that fact. Perhaps it is visiting her father that brings out this side of her, but she is ready to buy any lie, to cling to any promise or kindness offered her. She calls out, voice as throbbing as an opera, begging for the Angel to come to her. Carlotta touches her arm and she does not react.

The two voices are meshing together, flawlessly, instinctively. Carlotta did not believe until now that Christine could truly have such a deep connection with the Phantom, whether or not he ever taught her, but now she sees. Christine is utterly mesmerized. The self she shows around Carlotta is here, laid bare, and yet also swallowed up and gone.

“I denied you,” she sings. Carlotta never hated her singing voice until this moment. She seems about to weep with sorrow, guilt at having denied this fictional angel. As she widens her lips to continue, Carlotta claps a hand over her mouth. For a moment she strains, sound emanating without words, but then falls silent, startled. She looks over at Carlotta.

Carlotta says, in the flattest, most sensible voice she can manage, “We said that you were done with ghosts, did we not?”

For a moment the other voice is silent as well. Then, a mere whisper, “I am your Angel of Music.”

“We know perfectly well you are the phantom, monsieur!” Carlotta shrills. There goes her attempt at sounding practical and unmoved. “And I doubt not you are human as well, if you had the bravery to show your face instead of calling from a distance!”

A laugh. When he laughs, it is easy to see the similarities between this whispering ghost and the opera house pest. “Shall I show myself, then?”

“We know you will not dare!”

The laughter eases back into music. “Christine, Christine…”

The mantra that has always made Christine cast wildly about. Now it seems to steady her—she looks away from Carlotta and over to the crypt, from where the sound seems to come now.

“Come to your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music.”

Hesitant, she pulls away from Carlotta and takes one step forward. Then another.

“He is not your father!” Carlotta is screaming but she cannot drown out the phantom’s voice. “Christine!”

She runs forward and grabs Christine, pulling her away. Christine struggles to walk but Carlotta holds her close to her chest, pinning her arms against her. She says in her ear, “Listen, Christine. That’s not your father. You know this. He’s the phantom, and if you go to him, he’ll hurt you.”

“I am your Angel of Music…”

“He won’t hurt me,” Christine sobs, thrashing against Carlotta. “He loves me.”

Carlotta thanks God that she’s bigger than Christine and has the strength to overcome her tantrum. “He does not love you. He says he does…”

“He loves me!”

“And you love me, don’t you? This man hates me. What do you think he will do to me if you join him? How do you think I could live without you?” Carlotta only realizes she’s been raising her voice almost to a shout again when Christine winces away from her, cringing at the noise. Dully she thinks: that is all anything she says to Christine is, white noise. Christine isn’t truly hearing any of it. Burying her head into Christine’s neck, she rasps, “Christine, you can’t go to him.”

She doesn’t know what the phantom will do if Christine goes to him. Speak to her? Take her away again? Take her away for a week this time or for good? Perhaps only give her another singing lesson. It doesn’t matter. Carlotta feels in her heart that if the phantom is allowed to have his way in even the slightest details then she will lose Christine. This is a war; she can’t afford to lose any battles.

She hears someone clear their throat, less sonorous than the voice before. She looks up.

The phantom stands before her.

Who knows where he came from, but he is here now. It is the first time she has seen him face to face—or at least face to mask. He is much as Christine described, though she thinks with a rush of jealousy that although he might be deformed beneath the mask he is not so physically abhorrant as Christine led her to believe. He is also quite tall and in his black jacket it is hard to tell whether he is muscular or not, but he has a bared sword in one hand, and with that it would not take much to do a lot of damage.

Carlotta squeezes Christine, who has stilled in her arms, staring straight ahead. She says, “You dare to face me at last, then?”

The phantom laughs again, quietly, hoarsely. He says, “Come here, Christine. This woman cannot stop you.”

Christine shivers. Then she turns and puts her arms around Carlotta, holding on tight.

Carlotta glares at the phantom.

The phantom steps forward. He holds his sword up and saunters towards them, eyes always fixed on Carlotta’s. When he comes within reach he lifts the sword even a bit higher so that the blade balances an inch from Carlotta’s neck. He raises his eyebrow.

Carlotta’s hands dig into Christine’s back. “Am I supposed to be impressed, monsieur?”

The phantom holds the sword there for a long moment. Then he lowers it and sheathes it. “One does not kill toads with a sword,” he says. “But they do not live long, even left to their own devices.”

He stands there. At length Carlotta realizes they have been dismissed, and that he refuses to be the first to leave. She maneuvers Christine away, down a path that leads to the street. Their cab is still waiting for them, but the driver is gone. Carlotta puts Christine within the carriage and climbs up into the driver’s seat herself. She knows only a little of horses, taught her from rides with patrons who liked to show off a bit and let her have a try sometimes, but they must get home now, fast. She gets the horses going and calls back to Christine, “We’re going home.”

Christine does not reply, for a moment. She is sobbing. Then she says, “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” No answer. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. We’re going home.”

She decides, as she drives the horses down the road, that her next priority must be getting herself a gun, a small one that she can carry with her everywhere, concealed but available. The next time she meets the phantom she will not have to depend upon his mercy.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple notes:  
> 1\. This work was prompted by generalsleepy on tumblr, the prompt being "a Christine/Carlotta version of Wandering Child or the graveyard scene as a whole". It took me a while to do it because I kept on trying to figure out how the swordsfighting element would go, but I finally did it.  
> 2\. Why do you guys think Erik didn't kill Carlotta right there while he had the chance? I have mixed feelings on it (apart from the Doylist answer of "that wouldn't be a happy ending"), and all of them say the whole "you're not worth my sword" thing is bullshit...I'm wondering how someone else might interpret it.  
> Happy Femslash February!


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